Lost and Found
by litlover92
Summary: Sherlock finds himself losing everything he has but doesn't realise it until it is too late. Will outside forces win or is Sherlock able to bring everything back? Rating may go up in later chapters. J/S in the future.
1. Chapter 1: War and Revelations

**A/N: Hi all this is my first attempt at writing anything. Ever. I've taken this up as a summer project of sorts. I found inspiration by the marvellous acting of Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman (Sherlock and Dr. John Watson, respectively), got an idea and decided to run with it. Any reviews are appreciated but keep in mind I'm a total novice when it comes to this sort of thing.**

**Disclaimer: I have no ownership of the characters portrayed in this story and they remain the "property" of the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I'm not getting any money from this work.**

"_In breaking news, there has been another blast in Damascus targeting a primary school and nearby hospital. The death toll is unknown but is expected to be in the hundreds, including children and the elderly. The total fatalities throughout the country as a result of this war is expected to be over half a million citizens and military personnel. Six British soldiers are amongst the casualties. We will bring you more news as it comes. In Damascus Brianna Hodgson, BBC News."_

"John? John?" barked Sherlock.

"What is it _now_, Sherlock?" was John's curt reply.

"Pass me my phone" muttered Sherlock.

"Where is it?" John replied.

"In my pocket." Sherlock didn't bother looking up from his microscope, sitting amongst several papers and petrie dishes.

John sighed as he stood up and walked towards the brooding detective. "You know you could always get the damn thing yourself" he muttered. John carefully put his hand in Sherlock's pocket and retrieved his phone.

"Now send as message to Lestrade. I need a new case." Sherlock said.

"Why can't you do it?" said John though gritted teeth.

"Why should I when you can?" Sherlock replied.

John sighed as he send another message to the DI. Sherlock doesn't seem to understand that a case won't come any quicker no matter how many time he asks. John went back to his chair and returned to watching the news.

A reply came almost instantly. "Lestrade says there's nothing new and to stop bothering him" John called over his shoulder. Sherlock didn't seem to hear a thing.

"Sherlock are you listening to me?" John asked. Sherlock, again, didn't look up from his microscope.

"What on Earth is so fascinating that you can't be bothered to answer me?" said John.

"You wouldn't see the importance of it." mumbled Sherlock.

"Try me" John replied.

Sherlock looked agitated as he looked up to his flatmate. "I said you wouldn't understand. Besides, this is important and requires my full attention" he snapped. Sherlock was growing more agitated by the hour, John noticed. He always gets like this when he doesn't have a case.

"You know there are more important things in life, Sherlock" John muttered.

"Really? Like what?" Sherlock replied.

"You do realise there is a war going on, don't you?" John said.

"War? War is boring" Sherlock replied.

"Boring? BORING? You do realise people are dying, right? People are losing their homes and livelihoods over some stupid political squabbling!" John snapped.

"So? People are dying every day. It's what happens. Getting upset about it won't change anything." Sherlock said. "Besides, it's not like you can do anything, John."

"I was able to. Before some bastard shot me" John quietly replied. "But that doesn't mean I still don't care about what is going on."

"Sentiment doesn't solve anything, John. You aren't there any more. You can't fix anything. Go over to Bart's if you want to wallow in grief over the hundreds of dying people lying in their beds." Sherlock said.

John was growing more agitated and frustration at his friend. He was trying to control his anger before he said something he would regret.

"Don't you care, Sherlock? Don't you care about those that are suffering? All those dead bodies we look at have families. Loved ones. Friends. Don't you care about those who are left behind?" John asked.

"No. Caring won't bring them back or solve a case."

John stared at his flatmate in shock. He doesn't know why he still gets surprised by Sherlock's total lack of empathy towards others. The self confessed sociopath (albeit high functioning) hasn't changed since the day he met him.

"I'm going out, Sherlock." John said as he put his jacket on.

There was no reply from Sherlock, who was once again starting down his microscope.

"Do you need me to get anything while I'm out?" John called once he was down the stairs.

Again, there was no reply.

John walked away from 221B quickly. The wind was picking up and he didn't want to be out long. But he had to get away before he said something he'd regret. John has started to feel useless. He was stuck in some city clinic tending to babies with the sniffles when he used to patch up soldiers in the field. He used to be someone. Someone useful. Now all he did was run around with Sherlock like a puppy. John didn't even know why Sherlock needed him. It's not like he could deduce anything Sherlock couldn't. Most of the time he just copped abuse and ran errands. It was nothing like his life before. As John waited at a crossing he saw an army recruitment poster. He chuckled to himself once he noticed it hadn't changed a bit since he joined all those years ago.

"John? John Watson?" called a voice behind him. It sounded eerily familiar. John turned around and was quite startled by the man he saw. John could barely recognise him. The lean, muscular man he once knew was gone, his blonde hair speckled with greys.

"Simon? Simon Marx is that you?" John answered. "Good God man I can barely recognise you!"

"Yeah you really stack on the pounds once you aren't running around some dust bowl" he laughed. "So how have you been, Dr Watson?" Simon asked.

"Yeah…well…civilian life is certainly different to being on the front line" John replied.

"Gotta agree with you there, mate. But sometimes you miss the action, eh? Nothing gets the blood pumping through your veins like being shot at" Simon laughed.

John faked a smile. "Well you're lucky that you left on your own terms. I left a bit…prematurely"

Simon looked at his friend sadly. He knew John was a good doctor and a great soldier. He know the fulfilment John got when he saved lives. He had saved countless lives, in fact.

"I see you've been looking at the recruitment poster, eh? Trying to get all those young, fit lads to sign their lives away to Queen and country." Simon said cheerily. "Definitely got us."

"It really did" John replied. Thinking back on his time in Afghanistan made him both terrified and melancholic.

"You know they're desperate for doctors in Syria" Simon said. "Ever thought about joining the Medical Corps? I don't think you'll have to go on the front line, not if you're helping civilians."

John thought about it for a second. Could he really do it? Could he leave his life here in London and go back to war?

"You know what? I might think about it" John replied. "Besides I don't really have anything holding me here."

"No wife and kids? I know Tara and the kids would never let me go" Simon said. "My boy is starting school soon. Wouldn't miss that for the world."

John slowly thought of his response. "No-one of significance" he replied. The way he was feeling right now he could barely think of Sherlock.

"Well I need to go, John. Promised to take the family out for dinner. It was great seeing you, by the way. Might end up seeing you on the telly patching people up" Simon laughed.

"Yeah…you never know. It was great seeing you, Simon." John replied.

The conversation had definitely given him something to think about during his return to Baker Street.

Sherlock was still looking through his microscope while he pondered his earlier "debate" with John. Why did he have to have so many…emotions? So much sentiment? It never did anyone any good, he thought. Caring is no advantage. It only gets in the way. But why was John so angry with him? Sherlock heard the door open and those familiar steps up the stairs. He was still preoccupied as John entered the room.

"John, pass me a pen" Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock did you even realise I was gone?" John replied. "You haven't moved an inch since I left and I've been gone for hours."

"Oh your powers of deduction are sensational, John. Really good stuff" was Sherlock's curt reply.

"Oh for God's -" John cut himself off before he snapped. He was getting really sick of this. He tossed a pen towards Sherlock and went to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

"I ran into an old army mate of mine while I was gone" John called over his shoulder.

"Oh really? You mean the fat bloke with the cigarettes?" Sherlock said.

"How did you know?" John asked skeptically.

"He came by before you came back. Dropped this off" replied Sherlock. He held out the large yellow package.

"And you were going to tell me when?" said John, as he snatched it out of Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock looked up at his flatmate. He could tell he was getting angry with him but he didn't know why. "Well I didn't think it would be important. Since when did you get any mail, anyway?"

John stared at the package. He carefully opened it to see it's contents. There was a small note paper clipped on the front.

_John,_

_I went by the old army office and picked this up. Thought you might want to read it. Give it a think. - Simon Marx_

John quickly closed the envelope. He knew what it was but he didn't want to read it now. Not while Sherlock was here. John was so unsure as to why he was nervous about Sherlock finding out. It's not like he'd care.

"Sherlock I'm going to my room. Try and eat something" John muttered as he walked towards the door.

"But John the kettle's just boiled" Sherlock replied. Sherlock was becoming confused. It's not like John to leave a boiled kettle unused. But Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and picked up his violin. The intricacies of John's behaviour and mind was of little concern to him right now. All he wants is a case. Suddenly he felt the tell-tale buzz of a text in his pocket.

_Got a new case for you. You can John should come down to the Yard ASAP. Should be a good one. - GL_

_What is it? - SH_

_Murder. Young woman found lying near the Thames. No obvious cause of death. Similar to two victims last week. Thought we could handle it but I think we need your help. - GL_

_John and I will come down in the morning - SH_

Sherlock rubbed his hands with glee. A case! Finally a new case! The boredom has been crushing him. But for some reason he felt uneasy. Like something wasn't right. He thought about John's strange departure before. It wasn't like him to shut himself up in his room. The detective could only deduce it was something to do with the fat man and the envelope. He had to find out.


	2. Chapter 2: Uncertainty and Strain

**A/N: Hi all! Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed or favourited my little fic. I will admit I'm quite flattered but I can't help but feel an annoying buzz of nerves as I prepare to upload this next chapter. After this I'm going to set a strict update-every-Friday rule (AEST) to get a "system" happening. Any comments and observations are taken on board so send as much constructive criticism my way as you want.  
**

**Shout out to Dark3Star, allixx and N3onG1rSherlockndZaDrfangirl for being my first reviewers :) **

* * *

John didn't sleep well that night. His nightmares about Afghanistan didn't return but it was a different type of dream that plagued him. He dreamt of being in a hospital, surrounded by the dead and dying. But he couldn't do anything. Every patient he touched cried out in pain. No matter what he did he couldn't help them. He woke up sweating and shaking. John looked at the clock and saw it was 3:30 in the morning. He could hear Sherlock below him assaulting his violin. John had never had a dream like this before. He never felt like he was so useless. Perhaps his feelings of discontentment were more ingrained than he first thought.

The shaking doctor pulled himself out of bed and re-read the papers sent to him the day before. He had looked at them fleetingly but didn't give them much thought in detail. John read through the typical recruitment propaganda sent with every packet - he remembered the package he got when he first signed up like it was yesterday. A rush of adrenaline pumped through his veins. John glimpsed at his old uniform hanging up in his closet. He had always wanted to hold on to it even though it pained him to see the bullet hole. He dug through the pockets and grabbed his old dog tags. The dirt from Afghanistan was still on them. John sighed as he ran his fingers over them, again feeling melancholic. He did miss the action and feeling of pride he had back when he was a soldier. But he was unsure if he could do it again. Besides, a battered old veteran like himself wouldn't be accepted again. He looked back to the papers on his bed. Perhaps he could join the Reserves. It's not like he'd get shipped off to Syria the second he joined. He shoved the papers back in the draw and tried to sleep, hoping he wouldn't be haunted with the screams of the people he couldn't save. Not anymore.

Sherlock was deep in thought while he played his violin. He was desperate to know who the man was and why he was bothering John. He didn't like the feeling he was having. Was John hiding something from him? Was he unhappy? Was he sick of the life they had? Would he be thinking of leaving? Sherlock desperately tried to keep his fears at bay. He didn't even know why he was feeling like this. John would never leave him. He'd be lost without his blogger.

* * *

John woke up bleary eyed and sore. His sleep was still restless. He had no nightmares but he still felt like he hadn't slept a wink. Just before he could get out of bed his bedroom door bust open.

"John! Get up. We have a case" Sherlock said, the smile on his face almost contagious.

"Jesus, Sherlock, do you have no concept of all of knocking?" grumbled John. It was too early for this. He needed a cup of tea.

"Sherlock let me make some tea, alright? Then we'll go. Whenever there is a murder you act like a bloody kid in a candy store" John said.

Sherlock looked irritated. Why wasn't John hurrying up? There was a crime scene and he was missing it.

"Come later. I'll head off now" Sherlock yelled over his shoulder. He was out the door and gone within seconds.

John stared out the window in disbelief. He never went to a scene without him. Not recently, anyway. God he was acting strange.

"Mrs Hudson! Can you please put the kettle on?" John called out to his landlady.

"I'm not your housekeeper, dear, I'm your landlady. But I'll get us both a cuppa before you go" she answered with a sweet smile. Mrs Hudson was always so kind. He had no idea how she put up with Sherlock for so long. But then again sometimes he didn't even know how, or why, he did it.

John quickly dressed himself and joined his landlady on the sofa. He thanked her for the tea as he sat down.

"Dear, I'm worried about you and Sherlock. You seem to be having a bit of a tiff at the moment. What ever is the matter?" she asked sweetly.

John was puzzled by her question. "Tiff? Me and Sherlock? No, of course not. Things are fine. Everything is fine."

Mrs Hudson put her hand on John's arm and gave it a small squeeze. "I'm getting old, dear, not oblivious. I heard you boys last night and things seemed quite tense. I know when me and my husband argued he used to leave of hours as well. It's what kept us together, really. Until he…well, until he was no longer around."

"_Oh God, not this again" _John thought to himself. "Sherlock and I…don't always see things the same way. And he has no problem in voicing his opinions, no matter how untactful. He was edgy because there was no case. But he's back working now and everything is just the way it should be."

John smiled at the woman the best he could. He never had Sherlock's acting skills but he didn't want his landlady to start reading into things. It was bad enough that the two of them were under constant scrutiny from everyone at the Yard and public in general, especially since Sherlock came back, so the last thing he wanted was Mrs Hudson giving her two pence worth.

She smiled at John in return and slowly sipped her tea. "John, I know you two boys care about each other. I would hate for anything to come between you. Sherlock's a changed man, you know. For the better. Ever since you moved in all those years ago. You're both so good for each other, in your own way. Like two halves that make a perfect whole."

"_Oh you boys, what on Earth and I going to do with you? How could such smart young things be so ignorant?"_ she thought to herself.

John awkwardly cleared his throat. He did not like the direction this conversation was going. "Your concern is appreciated, Mrs Hudson, but I assure you everything is fine between me and Sherlock. Thanks for the tea. I have to pop out before going to the crime scene."

The doctor quickly pulled on his jacket and ran down the stairs. His head was spinning. _"Where did that come from?" _he asked himself. Why was everyone always assuming he and Sherlock were a couple? Was two men living and working together unacceptable in the 21st century?

John was still angry with Sherlock. Normally he'd never hold a grudge against him but he felt like he was at the end of his tether. Living with Sherlock was _exhausting. _It was like a constant battle with him. The man was like a child that needed constant stimulation and the way he treated his body was shocking. John shouldn't have to remind a grown man to eat and sleep every damn day. And all the experiments in the flat! John shouldn't be nervous about opening his own fridge. Or finding a decomposing rat in the oven. Or walking into a room and having to cover his mouth due to the smell of burning flesh. It just wasn't _normal. _Sherlock was like no person he had ever met. He was rude, uncouth, manipulative, had no regard for personal space, lacked any capacity to have any empathy at all and constantly took advantage of him. Was wanting an escape too much to ask? Even if it was only for a little while?

As the doctor pondered the many questions in his head he stopped next to a postbox and pulled out a concealed envelope from under his jacket. He felt like he was at a fork in the road and was about to make a potentially life-altering decision. John felt his phone vibrate and frowned. That damn man was becoming too much. He forced the envelope through the slot and hailed a taxi.

But deep down, even if he wasn't aware of it yet, John's subconscious was screaming with regret.

* * *

Sherlock's cab got to the crime scene relatively quickly given the morning traffic but it still wasn't fast enough. Apparently cabbies are more than happy to ignore the speed limit when extra money was involved. Sherlock opened the door and threw some notes at the driver before the cab had stopped. There was no time to waste. He saw Lestrade and Donovan waiting for him. He irritatingly noticed Anderson was on forensics.

"Trouble in paradise, Freak? Where's your puppy gone?" Donovan sneered. Anderson chuckled to himself behind her.

"Finally got a bit of cop on and left, did he? Everyone in the Yard had a betting pool going. We didn't think John would stick around for as long as he did" Anderson said mockingly.

"Wife still out of town, Anderson? Nice to see Sally here keeping your bed warm at night" Sherlock snapped. He was in no humour for this. Sherlock began to realise he missed John's presence. Perhaps he shouldn't of left so quickly.

"Would you three stop bickering? Donovan go back to the office and start the paperwork. Anderson stop acting like a child and get back to work. Sherlock…where on Earth _is _John?" Lestrade asked. Even he was confused as to where John was. John and Sherlock were always joined at the hip - seeing one without the other was as likely as seeing a giraffe in Soho. Sherlock walked towards the body without answering. He was irritated that he was feeling slightly lost without the good doctor. He pulled out his phone and quickly messaged him.

_John, where are you? - SH_

_Will you be patient? I_'_ll be there was soon as I can. Can't I have five bloody minutes to myself? I had some business to take care of. - JW_

Sherlock sighed in frustration and walked towards the body then thoroughly investigated what he saw. Anderson and his idiots had trod all over the ground nearby and potentially ruined good evidence. Sherlock wished Anderson would take a long walk off a short pier and take Donovan with him.

"So do you have any ideas?" Lestrade asked.

"Mmm…twelve so far." Sherlock muttered in response. He needed John to help him right now and his patience was wearing thin. Just his train of thought ended he heard a taxi pull up. John quickly got out and walked towards the river.

"Ah, John! It's good to see you. Sherlock's just started" Lestrade said cheerfully. But he couldn't help but notice the solemn look on John's face. He clearly didn't get much sleep last night. Something was bothering him and if he was a betting man he'd guess it had something to do with Sherlock. It _always _had something to do with Sherlock.

"Hey Greg, sorry for being late. I was held up" John replied, faking a smile the best he could. He walked past Donovan and Anderson, trying to ignore their whispers.

"You know you two look like a couple of teenage girls, standing around and gossiping like that" John snapped as he walked towards Sherlock.

"Oi! I thought I told you two to get back to work! Now stop standing around and make yourselves useful! Don't make me ask again or you'll be on desk duty for a month!" Lestrade barked. Even he was getting sick of their carrying on. He's known Sherlock for five years and they have been at each other's throats since day dot. Donovan and Anderson sulked as they returned to their duties. No-one at the Yard wanted to be stuck doing desk work.

John walked over to Sherlock. "I'm sorry for being late, Sherlock. How's the deducing doing?" he laughed. He wasn't sure if it was worked but he was desperate to see Sherlock a little less…tense.

"I've narrowed down my theories from twelve to five. What do you think cause of death is?" Sherlock asked John, intentionally making eye contact. He unknowingly crept closer to his blogger, like he wanted to be as close to him as possible. John looked over the woman thoroughly. He smelt no alcohol on her and noticed the marks on her wrists and ankles. His head (and heart) wasn't in it at the moment so he decided to hazard a guess.

"I'd say drowning. By the looks of her I'd say she was kept underwater for a while. Maybe something like a brick was tied to her ankles and wrists to keep her down" John said. Sherlock noticed his odd behaviour. He could tell he was guessing instantly.

"Right. Send the body to Bart's and the papers to 221B. John and I will go now" Sherlock said suddenly. Everyone looked surprised. Normally they'd have to pull Sherlock away from a crime scene. They didn't need to have Sherlock's IQ to tell something was wrong between the pair. Sherlock strutted off towards the street and John trailed behind them. The detective hailed a taxi and shoved himself in.

Sherlock had enough of the guessing and strain. He could feel the tension between them and he didn't like it. Was this something new or had he just not noticed it before? And why the hell was he so confused about it all? It hadn't been like this since Sherlock came back. Surely John was over it by now? Were Anderson and Donovan right? Panic was starting to set in and hundreds of scenarios were going through his head. Sherlock almost stopped breathing when he finally realised what he was feeling: it was fear. Fear that he was going to lose John. But the consulting detective had no idea why.


	3. Chapter 3: Expectations & Disappointment

**A/N: Hi all! Thanks to everyone who has read and/or reviewed my little tale. I like seeing that people out there (mostly from the US but as far away as Brazil and the Neatherlands - greetings from Australia!) are having a read. I hope you're enjoying it so far. I hope to improve over time and all comments are taken on board.**

* * *

The taxi ride back to 221B was icy and tense. John seemed as though he was ready to unravel like a coil wound too tight. Sherlock, on the other hand, kept the same stoic mask that he wore all too often. There was obviously a rift developing between the two flatmates.

"John I shouldn't have run off this morning without you" Sherlock muttered in an attempt to break the ice.

"Don't worry about it. It's fine. It's all…fine" John sighed in return. Sherlock wasn't buying it. He knew something was wrong and he'd be damned if he was going to let this go on. Over the past 48 hours the close bond between the pair seemed to be disintegrating before his eyes. And it frightened him. Surely if they could survive his "death" then they could get past whatever _this _is.

The cab pulled up outside their flat and Sherlock hastily threw some notes at their driver, not waiting to receive any change. John had quickly unlocked the door and was racing up those seventeen steps before Sherlock had a chance to stop him. The taller man took off after him and followed John into their sitting room. He slammed the door as he entered. As usual their flat was taking the brunt of Sherlock's ever present mood swings.

"God damn it, Sherlock! Mrs Hudson is going to kick us out if you keep busting the place up!" John snapped at the detective. He knew he should be keeping his emotions in check but his resolve was waning.

Sherlock stared at John, his face calm and apathetic. But John could hear the cogs turning in that brilliant brain in Sherlock's head.

"Look…I'm sorry I've been snappy…I just haven't been sleeping well" John muttered apologetically. He didn't want to make things worse. "I know you're busy with the case and everything so I'll get out of your -" John was abruptly cut off.

"No"

John was startled at Sherlock's interjection. "What do you mean no?" he asked.

"Something is wrong. Just because I choose not to waste valuable time and energy contemplating feelings it doesn't mean I can't tell when something's changed." Sherlock answered. "What is it, John? What has gotten you so upset? Is it me? Have you still not got passed what I did at Bart's? Why would you still be angry? I believe I explained myself efficiently."

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock! Can you get your head out of your backside for one fucking second and stop thinking everything is about you because it's not!" John barked. "And why do you keep bringing that up? Just because you explained yourself but it doesn't hurt any less, okay?"

Sherlock felt a slight release in tension. At least it wasn't something he had done. But then what is it? But much to his surprise John started going off like a loose canon.

"I was fucking devastated, Sherlock. I saw you throw yourself off a building. You died right in front of me. I spoke at your funeral. Cried at your gravestone. Felt grief so strong that I didn't know was possible. And then you just decide to pop back into my life when it was convenient for you."

Sherlock stared at John. This was ridiculous. Why was this even coming back up again?

"Convenient for me? Stop being such an idiot, John. I was waltzing around the world chasing down Moriarty's legion of men and I don't even know if I finished them all! It wasn't exactly a picnic. I wasn't even gone that long."

"You left for two fucking years! I had barely recovered! I spent so many mornings thinking I would find you bent over a microscope. I imagined hearing your violin at night. And then you just rocked up one day and I honestly thought I had lost it. I questioned my own fucking sanity for days! Every damn morning I didn't know if you would still be here. Every time you left I wondered if you were coming back. Do you have any idea what it was like for me? Have you got no concept of empathy? Do you even care the slightest about those around you?"

Sherlock began to realise things weren't quite put to rest. He had never heard John curse so much before. He then remembered the argument they had the day before and it suddenly made sense.

"Is this about what I said yesterday? I told you not to make people into heroes, John. I don't care about them. All those people out there. It won't make them live or die any faster. It won't save them. Caring doesn't make any difference at all. "

John laughed. "Oh of course the _great Sherlock Holmes _could never do something so pedestrian like caring for other people! You just don't get it, do you?"

Sherlock began to realise he really didn't. He didn't understand why John was so upset with him. It's not like his behaviour had suddenly changed. Did John even really know who he was after all this time?

"Look. I'm sick of talking about this. I should know better than to expect you to even show a trace of concern for the welfare of others. I'll be fine. I just need…time" John muttered.

"Oh how much time do you need, John? I've been back for ages. I'm here, aren't I? Isn't this what you wanted?" The frustration was evident in the detective's voice.

John didn't even know what he wanted any more. He wanted to run away and stay at the same time. He wanted to punch Sherlock's perfectly chiselled face then hold him tight. He longed for the action and adrenaline of battle but the thought of leaving Sherlock was unbearable. How can a man who was once so sure of himself feel so torn?

"Fine. Then tell me what's wrong. And don't tell me you're fine because a deaf and blind Labrador could see that you're not. This is about more than what happened at Bart's." Sherlock asked curtly.

"What do you care, Sherlock?" was the whispered reply.

Sherlock groaned in response and ran his hands through his perfect curls. "Because it's getting in the way of the work! The work, John! We can't stand about forever! Just spit it out already."

John began to think this discussion was futile. All he wanted to do was to walk out the flat and blow off some steam. But not unlike the metaphorical canine Sherlock would keep at this like a dog with a bone.

The doctor sighed and walked towards his flatmate. He felt the anger suddenly leave his body and be replaced with sadness. "Do you know who I am?" he asked. Sherlock was puzzled by the question.

"What sort of inane question is that? Of course I know who you are! We've been living together for years" Sherlock replied.

"No, Sherlock. Do you really know who I am? Who I was?" John muttered, barely making eye contact. "I used to be so much more than the person I am now. I used to be someone important."

Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders. "You ARE important, John. Why would you think otherwise?" he hissed. John was used to the detective disregarding any notion of personal space but right now he felt like he was suffocating. He pushed Sherlock away and for a brief moment Sherlock looked startled before regaining his stone-faced composure.

"All I do is follow you to crime scenes and cop insults because I'm not some damn genius like you. I dole out flu shots and antibiotics in some tiny city clinic. Back in Afghanistan I used to make a fucking difference and make myself useful. I didn't think civilian life would be so…different. I thought I would feel as useful as I did before." John rubbed his hands over his face and suddenly the voice of Mycroft Holmes ran through his mind.

"_You aren_'_t traumatised by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it._"

At the time John didn't want to believe it. He had seen enough murder and misery on the battlefield to last him a lifetime. He should be desperate to stay away - not desperate to go back.

Sherlock looked John and suddenly everything made sense. His reaction to the news, the fat man and the envelope, suddenly having secret "business"…

"You want to go back."

John looked torn when Sherlock verbalised what he was too scared to say. And Sherlock was right. He always was.

"Yes." he whispered. "I never expected this to happen. I thought I would be happy back in London. I thought I could build a life for myself here. I was supposed to take my veteran's pension, get a "normal" job and lead a "normal" life."

"So when are you leaving?" Sherlock's question was unexpected yet inevitable. As always the detective is three steps ahead.

"I don't know if I'll go back, Sherlock. I don't even know if I can go" John said to his flatmate.

"You are no longer satisfied with our current arrangement. Don't let me keep you here. Besides, I'm sure Afghanistan is far more invigorating than following me around everywhere, right? You knew what you were getting yourself into when you came with me to that first crime scene. I'm sorry it's just not good enough for you" Sherlock spat with resentment. Why is he getting so upset over this?

It pained him to say the words. Mycroft was right. He was right. Emotions and sentiment are defects only found on the losing side. And Sherlock never lost. Even though the thought of John leaving struck him to his core he refused to show it. When he looked at his blogger he could tell he was in pain. Not physical, but emotional. Sherlock felt a slight twist in his stomach at the sight.

John felt panic run through his veins. How the man could go from being furious at Sherlock to desperate to reassure him in mere seconds was unbelievable. The consulting detective seemed to have some sort of power over him. John could never stay angry with Sherlock for very long, no matter how hard he tried.

"_If it was anyone but Sherlock" _the doctor began to think, _"I would've left long ago."_

"Please don't think I'm not happy with what we have, Sherlock. Just because a twisted part of me wants to go back doesn't mean I'm going to leave." John said. Sherlock walked to the fireplace and picked up the skull from the mantlepiece, back turned to John.

John walked over to Sherlock and cautiously placed one hand on the consulting detective's shoulder. He felt Sherlock's muscles tense over the impossibly expensive shirt he was wearing. He could almost swear he felt Sherlock's heart racing almost as fast as his was.

"You won't be happy here much longer. You'll see the tears and heartbreak on the news and feel guilty that you aren't doing more to help. Your emotions will get the better of you" Sherlock said, barely keeping his voice steady. Why was the thought of John leaving so damn impossible to bear?

"Look, Sherlock, let's just leave this be for now. We should work on the case" John said soothingly. He hated seeing Sherlock so tense. "Everything will be fine. I'm fine. They probably wouldn't take a battered old veteran back anyway."

Sherlock turned around and John felt those icy blue eyes stare into his soul. He noticed a sadness was present that he never seen before.

Before Sherlock had a chance to respond he heard the telltale tires of a squad car pulling up outside. Sherlock raced downstairs without a word to meet Greg Lestrade outside their front door. John looked out the window saw Sherlock quickly snatch the papers from the DI's hand and hail a taxi. As usual one seemed to appear out of thin air and before he knew it Sherlock was gone.

John was about to slump into his armchair when he heard Lestrade sprinting up the stairs. Instead he turned towards the kitchen and put the kettle on. He had a feeling that Spanish Inquisition: Baker Street Edition was about to start. John saw Lestrade huff into the living room. He was certainly looking worse for wear, as usual. Bags under his eyes and stubble were always a tell tale sign that Greg was spending far too many hours at the Yard. John braced himself as Greg looked at him with both concern and confusion.

"John, what the HELL is going on with you and Sherlock?"


End file.
